


The Look

by sangueuk



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim teaches McCoy a lesson in gratitude. Thing is, will McCoy get it and change his ways? This is for the 2011 km_anthology  prompt - ‘public sex’.</p><p>Intriguing snippet: <i>. In the general run of the mill day on the ship, he gets away with murder, so to speak, but here, now, the way Jim’s eyes flash to ice in an instant, fear grips his heart. Maybe he’s misjudged.<br/></i></p><p><b>Warnings</b>:  Threat of death to major character, dubious consent issues, bad language a-plenty, MU!Kirk being a total bastard as is his wont, violence (not explicit), and a glimmer of romance in a dark universe if you squint. Even with all that, some might consider this MU!lite.</p><p>Thanks to abigail89 for beta reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Look

**The Look**

It’s funny, really, that McCoy should be thinking about _this_ of all things, in this moment, with his wrists raw above him, held tight by clamps to a cool, smooth wall, his clothes flayed from his chest and back from countless beatings. But then, McCoy knows the mind can play strange tricks on you when you know you’re going to die.

He’s a goner for sure, and if he’s thinking about Jim, how he’s never _seen_ his psychotic captain come, hell who’s going to know or fucking care anyway? It’s between him and Jupiter, the Buddha -- who ever the fuck is out there and responsible for this pig’s ear of a fucking universe anyways.

Countless times he’s _felt_ Jim buck and shudder deep inside his ass; _tasted_ hot come sear his throat; _heard_ Jim grunt out behind him, _imagined_ a triumphant look in Jim’s eyes when he’s been flipped onto his back and Jim’s hurriedly wrapped a sash over McCoy’s eyes, but he’s never once looked into Jim’s eyes _in that moment_.

McCoy regrets that now he’ll never know what he might have learned about the real James T. Kirk, if he’d been allowed a glimpse into who really walks the halls of Jim’s soul, what he might have found out about the Empire’s golden boy if Jim had ever let McCoy in.

Jim’s fucked McCoy often enough; in fact it’s almost a daily ritual. Even after two years, Jim hasn’t tired of McCoy, but it’s only now there’s time to think. McCoy’s replayed their ‘routines', and he’s realized there’s a pattern -- Jim’s actively _prevented_ the eye-contact.

He’s folded and fucked McCoy over and against each piece of furniture and flat surface on the ship, had McCoy bouncing on his dick on his office floor, or up against the wall in the ready room, begging to be allowed to _come, already you arrogant fuck_ , in the shuttle, over the conference table, doors locked and McCoy opened wide.

And what happens, McCoy sees now, is that every time Jim will turn McCoy over, or bury his face in McCoy’s throat, or blindfold him as he plows into him until Jim comes undone, hidden. Jesus, why hasn’t he noticed before this? He’s been too wrapped up in the thrill and fear, the brutal sensations, the cries Jim wreaks out of him, too lost in their struggling dance to hold any thoughts that aren’t about more, and now, and _here, Jim_.

Moments of clarity be damned, McCoy thinks, trying in vain to will away the throbbing in his head, the burning in his cramped limbs. He’s going to die of thirst before long and yet all he can think about is Jim – stupid, _stupid_ idiot that he is.

Then again, it’s the only connection McCoy’s got in his otherwise brutal universe - Jim’s unspoken protection for him and, by default, for Joanna. Nowadays getting past the age of thirty’s a fucking miracle especially in his line of business. So McCoy tolerates his role as _captain’s woman_. Tolerates? He’d laugh, if he could find the strength, at how he deludes himself that he even has a choice in the matter. McCoy’s never refused Jim; no one he knows has and lived. At first he came to heel blinded by Jim’s undoubted glamor which ignited arousal despite himself. He’s sought Jim out as much as Jim has him, masking his desire and need with snark, attitude and bad temper, tolerated by Jim because it amuses and inflames him, because his captain detests sycophants as much as he needs total obedience and fear in his crew.

McCoy hisses and groans through another bruising cramp twisting his calf muscles – then when he’s quiet again, panting with relief, he listens. Today feels different. He can’t put his finger on it and he’s unsure if it’s because he hasn’t seen or heard the guards in hours or if it’s just too quiet.

He tries to shift his body but nothing can take away the searing pain in his chest, the ache in his shoulders from his weight bearing down on him anymore. Where once he was a CMO, now, in his last moments, he’s an ache, a dull, throbbing pain, dried out and grumbling to the last.

“He’ll come,” Sulu whispers from beside him.

The hell he will. McCoy gave up hoping days ago. Jim won’t come. Why would he? Sure their captain will win in the end, _will_ beat these fuckers, raze this planet to the ground most likely, but McCoy doubts the rescue party will even bother to pick through the rubble for them. They’re fucked, and McCoy has always been a pragmatist. The fear disappeared when the Nuujicho stopped feeding them, a clue negotiations with the Enterprise had ground to a halt. The Empire doesn’t pay out for hostages _ever_ – all are expendable when it comes to the ‘greater good’.

As McCoy sags into unconsciousness again, acceptance calms his weary heart and lungs, and the only thing he regrets is not knowing whether Joanna will survive his death.

Maybe not knowing is good.

+++ 

McCoy’s awakened by the sound of phaser fire.

When he forces open his eye, the one that’s not pounded shut, he thinks he sees a smudge of gold in front of him. But he’s so fucking thirsty, his tongue too dry to provide any relief to his chapped lips, his head swimming, the part of his brain that’s still capable of rational thought, that still fucking _cares_ whether he lives or dies, accepts he must be hallucinating.

His nostrils flare wide at the familiar subacrid of burnt flesh and bone. He can picture the scene outside the cell door from the moans of agony, and he hears what he thinks is Spock’s voice calculating odds and body counts. It’s all so familiar and like home that he trembles with relief, tears trying to form in his eyes, words struggling to work their way loose from his raw throat.

He hears Sulu groan beside him, “Captain!”

McCoy wills his eye to focus.

Well - fuck. The bastard made it.

He feels a dry, cool touch to his jaw as his head’s tilted and he’s almost blinded by brilliant blue, his senses flooded by Jim’s heat, the clean smell of him, the freshness of his breath compared to his own dehydrated mess and the stench of death surrounding them.

“You took your fucking time,” he manages to say, resisting the urge to lean into his savior, and he’s rewarded by a familiar chuckle. Jim.

McCoy coughs, chokes at the rasp of air down his throat. He listens to first the sound of someone beaming into the cell, then hears Spock say, “Four to beam up.” Footsteps. The whirr of a tricorder scanning him.

“Well?” Jim says.

Even M’Benga’s familiar baritone is a comfort, his voice sullen since he must know his promotion to CMO isn’t forthcoming after all. “He’s dangerously dehydrated, vital signs are good, fractures to the third rib, and,” M’Benga adds casually, “he might lose his eye.” Smug bastard.

McCoy twists his wrists in his manacles, tries to stand though his legs buckled under him days ago. “You gonna untie me or what, you goddamn—“ he splutters. He barely has the energy to wince when two hypos are delivered in brutal succession into his neck. He manages to glare one-eyed at M’Benga and instantly feels his brain beginning to function more clearly as the electrolyte and analgesics weave their magic. The throbbing in his head eases and his heart rate slows to something like normal.

Jim ignores his attitude, like he always does, and McCoy can just imagine him smirking indulgently as he feels a wave of something heat his face. _Great_ \- just when he thought he couldn’t give a good goddamn anymore whether he lived or died, when he was ready to slide into sleep, the annoying, _inconvenient_ need to fight his way through life resurfaces.

“About that eye, Geoffrey. . . .” How Jim loves to use given names when he’s being particularly scary. “If he loses his, you lose yours -- we clear?”

There’s a rustle and a stamp of feet as M’Benga salutes in affirmation.

“Okay, Bones, that was fucking inconvenient of you, getting captured—“

The adrenaline, the indignation, and of course the drugs in his system, combine to blast any mist from McCoy’s vision and he manages to glare at the cocky son-of-a-bitch, even raise an eyebrow much as it hurts to even fucking _breathe_.

He’s gifted with his first proper sight of Jim. He’s standing one hand on his hip, the other gripping a phaser; his knife’s at his hip, and there’s sprays of arterial blood on his face and shirt, what’s left of it – Jim gets through the gold weave like nobody’s business. Other than that, the bastard looks like he’s stepped right out of the shower. He’s magnificent. And he’s smiling, his eyes, bright with victory, sweeping McCoy’s broken form and in no damned hurry to cut him loose.

McCoy smothers his joy with venom and grates out, “What you gonna do, dock my pay?” McCoy just can’t fucking help himself it appears. In the general run of the mill day on the ship, he gets away with murder, so to speak, but here, now, the way Jim’s eyes flash to ice in an instant, fear grips his heart. Maybe he’s misjudged.

Actually, no ‘maybe’ about it. Jim’s hands are in McCoy’s hair, yanking his head back so it thuds against the stone wall and Jim’s voice is a hive buzzing with intent. McCoy forces himself to hold Jim’s gaze, to not swallow.

“A simple thank you would have been nice,” Jim says darkly. “Been away from the south too long; explains why you’ve forgotten your gentlemanly ways. I’m going to have to give you a reminder. Maybe Sulu, too.” That voice, the threat in it, McCoy thinks it should be accompanied by the stench of sulphur. Jim releases McCoy’s hair and it takes all his strength to hold his head high, to conceal his fear.

Damn, McCoy shouldn’t have allowed the will to live to resurface, because now he _cares_ ; he wishes he hadn’t fucked up and said the wrong thing. The way Jim’s frowning, examining the blade of his dagger, it doesn’t look good.

Jim tosses his phaser at M’Benga who catches it mid-air with his left hand; a sly look plays on the doctor’s face – maybe he’ll be CMO after all.

Jim raises his chin, eyes narrowed and his hand’s round McCoy’s throat, fingers tight enough to cause discomfort, promising worse. McCoy’s eyes roll in reflex panic. Jim’s going to make an example of him.

There’s a scrape by McCoy’s left ear when Jim stabs his dagger into the wall. McCoy inhales sharply, tries to arch away from Jim, then goes rigid when the cold blade presses against his throat, when toothpaste fresh breath burns his ear.

He’s dimly aware of Sulu complaining next to him. He can hear the tricorder again as M’Benga sweeps him up and down. He tries to calm down by listening to the prognosis and, despite the thud of his heart in his skull, he picks up enough to know Sulu’s fine to stay right where he is for the time being, unfortunately for McCoy, because now, he gets the feeling his crazy commanding officer’s hankering after an audience. He feels his cheeks redden, stares over Jim’s shoulder.

“At ease, Geoffrey,” Jim says pleasantly, “I won’t be a moment.” _Well isn’t that thoughtful of him?_

The knife scores McCoy’s throat and he wills himself again not to swallow. “I don’t need a shave, _Captain_.” Might as well get hung for a sheep as a goat…. Jim’s flush against him now, nudges McCoy’s feet apart with his boot, tongue flickering across pink lips, and McCoy can make out each one of those thick eyelashes, feels himself being drawn in by the unblinking gaze. Fuck, why _this_ , why this tightening in his balls? He hates how well-trained he is, how his stupid fucking cock confuses fear and arousal so that the two intertwine like a caduceus.

“You sure about that, Bones?”

The knife follows an interminably slow path towards the dip in his collar where it rests. Jim loosens the grip on McCoy’s throat to snake a finger down his chest, pulling at the torn fabric, poking at the skin beneath.

The way Jim’s eyes burn possessively, they tell McCoy that even without the manacles, Jim knows he wouldn’t need to hold McCoy in place. Jim shifts his hip away from McCoy’s thigh and palms his cock through the fabric. “I know there’s _something_ you need, something to remind you of the _fucking_ trouble and expense the _fucking Empire’s_ gone to free your sorry ass. It’s not to be sniffed at, Bones.” He spits out the curse words, each one making McCoy clench his jaw so he doesn’t flinch.

Like the Empire’s got an idea any of this is going on. Right, Captain Does What He Pleases -- long as the brass make a pretty profit from his pirating ways they turn a blind eye to whom Jim subjugates and plunders. Long as Jim passes money up through the ranks, doesn’t inhibit expansion and the acquisition of resources – he has free rein but, it’s a tightrope walk - he fucks up just once, he’ll lose the _Enterprise_. And his balls. McCoy can sense an underlying note of irritation in Jim’s voice that has nothing to do with a possibility he may have overstepped the admiralty’s lax line.

McCoy tries to moisten the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue and turns his head away from Jim’s intense gaze. He can feel calloused fingers working their way into his pants and heat pools in his groin when they settle around his half hard dick.

“They sent me images of your punishments, Bones, you know that? Interesting entertainment with my morning coffee.”

Fuck, the _heat_ of him, the power of him; McCoy hates himself just a little for the way he trembles in anticipation. “Yeah, well, I suspected as much. That’s why I insisted on a make-over before they whipped me.”

 _Damn, those hypos are the bomb,_ McCoy thinks irritably; he’s not quite up to a lap around the track, but he almost feels himself, manacles and fetid breath notwithstanding. McCoy cants his hips into Jim’s grip, relieved his arousal’s shielded from the onlookers by Jim’s body.

M’Benga laughs, but McCoy senses the rage in Jim, that the Nuujicho should do this, that they should hurt his plaything; it’s in the tension in Jim’s body, the way he squeezes McCoy’s cock warningly, a private communication that while Jim’s feigning distance from what he saw, for the benefit of Sulu, M’Benga, _thi_ s is why he’s here, why he’s personally become involved in releasing his CMO, why Jim didn’t leave him, and by default, Sulu, to rot as any sane man would have had done. McCoy relaxes inwardly and knows to project as much disdain as he can manage.

Jim presses his lips against McCoy’s ear. “I’m going to show you, Bones,” he hisses.

Show him what? Who’s in charge? What happens when McCoy oversteps the mark? Or, is Jim going to show how much he doesn’t need McCoy in his own twisted fuck way? McCoy’s fully hard now, all feeling gone from his arms, everything settling in his groin, against the cool of those fingers, his breath hitching, and his face burning with humiliation as Jim pulls away from him.

McCoy watches, transfixed, how Jim undoes his pants, pulls out his erection, pale and hard in the artificial light. Shit, McCoy has to stop himself moaning. Jim clicks his fingers so M’Benga rushes to his side, rummages in his med kit and hands him a vial of medicated lube. Great. He knows the lube’s more for Jim’s enjoyment than his comfort; he recalls how Jim enjoys rough-fingering McCoy for his own amusement, wriggling against McCoy’s prostate with mere spit to ‘ease’ the path, whiskey if Jim’s feeling particularly sadistic, watching McCoy’s twisted expressions, letting him buck as much as he wants as long as McCoy never allows his legs to fall from his chest.

McCoy’s cock is almost flush against his belly, and there’s nothing he can do to hide it, nothing he can conceal from M’Benga, from Sulu who’s released now, standing shakily near M’Benga, watching the little show. It’s a public display of control, a statement that even when it comes to Leonard McCoy, while Jim might find his attitude amusing in private, McCoy’s crossed the line when he should be showing some kind of gratitude that Jim’s put his own personal safety at risk.

McCoy’s cheeks burn, and it’s not because of his partial nudity, but at how his exposed cock flags up, how his body’s programmed to obey Jim despite what his good sense says. He tries to imagine what would happen if Jim had done this to Sulu; the helmsman would acquiesce, any of the crew would. They wouldn’t hide how much they fucking like it, they wouldn’t need to, because they’d hate it.

He’s seen plenty of wanna-be alpha dogs cow their subjects, hasn’t spared them a second look half the time. He’s watched the aristocrats fuck some poor bastard down, their victim’s discarded pride becoming another rung up the Imperial ladder. And their eyes are blank when they’re subjugated, or burning with hatred, and their struggles cease, and they give in to the inevitable. None of them would get hard; their bodies aren’t one big mass of betrayal.

No one _likes_ Jim’s punishments, no one relishes them, yet here’s McCoy telegraphing his need to be _exactly_ in that position. He’s panting as Jim slices his pants aside with his knife so his bare ass is touching the cool wall. No one wants to lose in this society, they’re all programmed to fight, to at least want to crawl their way to the top even if they haven’t got a chance of getting there. Not he - McCoy is weakness personified, in every strain of his jaw, in the way he pants when Jim steps between his legs, hard and lubed up, raising, then angling, McCoy’s thighs, and arching up so he’ll be able to push his cock to McCoy’s entrance. Any fool here can see this.

McCoy doesn’t need much prep, not physically, nor mentally, never has but now, the vague notion that he’s going to get fucked for the first time face to face, _and Jim won’t be able to look away_ , has McCoy trying desperately to impale himself on Jim’s cock when he’s dangerously unprepared.

“Easy, Bones, I’ll get there!” Jim grunts as he shoves McCoy harder against the wall. “Geoffrey’s got enough to do without having to patch up your ass too.”

There’s a snort behind them and Jim shoots a look over his shoulder at the acting CMO, then glances at Sulu who has that assessing look McCoy knows so well. The helmsman’s calculating, running quickly through possible responses, for the appropriate way to react to his captain’s casual words. Whatever expression he settles on, Bones doesn’t see because his eyes are hungrily fixed on Jim’s face, drinking in boiling blue, then the top of his head as Jim preps him roughly.

Not once does Jim look at him directly and Bones blinks impatiently, rolling his head against the wall behind him, breathing raggedly and then holding his breath when Jim leans into his neck and whispers so low McCoy wonders whether he’s heard right “You want this.”

McCoy feels a wave of panic, wishes his arms were free so he could cling on to Jim, _show_ him, but he’s not even sure if it’s a question or a statement. Why would Jim care whether he wanted this or not, anyways? Why the fuck would he ask?

He parts his lips, flares his nostrils – he’s not going to give Jim anything more than that.

Jim blinks, takes this in, then growls, “Up,” and works a hand under McCoy’s ass, forcing him up the wall. McCoy’s hands snag and drag in the manacles rubbing torn wrists.

Jim moves a hand to the small of his back to angle him. He presses his face into McCoy’s chest and McCoy looks over his shoulder at Sulu and M’Benga, impassive faces, heated eyes watching him rather than Jim and, Jesus, he finds this such an unexpected turn on he growls out in annoyance just as Jim begins to breach him. He thinks it’s some misplaced pride that Jim should be claiming him like this in front of everyone, parading him so to speak, but he suspects it’s way more complicated.

Jim grunts, pushes more, his short nails digging into McCoy’s skin; he cranes his head back to contemplate McCoy. He’s got beads of sweat on his upper lip, and McCoy wishes he could bite and taste their softness. Maybe Jim can read his mind, since his lips purse, then he’s worrying his lip as he begins a steady, awkward angled rhythm. McCoy’s heart thuds hard as he’s filled and slammed continuously against the wall, huffing and groaning with no care for how much noise he’s making, despite how Sulu nudges M’Benga and bares his teeth in a lascivious grin.

McCoy snaps his eyes back to Jim, who’s frowning, whose strokes are faltering, legs shaking as he supports McCoy’s greater bulk. The infernal blue of his eyes drawing him with their own gravity, so that everything seems to polarize here between them, so no one else exists, the pain dissolves and he pleads, a ragged hiss, “More, you _fuc_ -, captain…”

“Say thank you, Bones,” Jim harshes out, managing some kind of smirk even now, and there’s a titter behind them. Jim bares his teeth, squints and stills for a second. _Now_ , McCoy thinks; he nudges his supporting leg against Jim’s and Jim looks up and _yes_ , the fucking look in Jim’s eyes, the way his forehead furrows in something like disbelief, pupils blown, revealing. He comes in a long, stuttering shudder, holding still at the last while McCoy just drinks in that hard soft look, his own cock slapping helplessly between them, desperate for friction.

It’s the most powerful McCoy’s ever felt in his life, despite his exposure, despite the fact that he has an audience for his shame. He knows Jim’s never let anyone see _this_ , his eyes almost black with arousal. McCoy comes in a torrent of euphoria, with barely any contact, even as Jim pulls out, pats him on the cheek and turns his back on him, leaving him flailing and shuddering and bound.

McCoy shoots him a look of what he hopes will be interpreted as hate by the others; God knows, Jim isn’t even looking at him.

Jim tucks himself in, the picture of cool, like his virile display is about as commonplace as any other part of his daily routine. M’Benga hands back his phaser, and Jim spins on his heel, shoots the manacles open, the burning metal searing his skin and adding another item to McCoy’s to-do list when he makes it back to sickbay.

“Four to beam up, Scotty,” Jim says casually and he waits for everyone to gather around him, McCoy teetering forward, tucking himself in, slumping to the ground just as Jim says “Energize.”

Mortified with shame, McCoy watches Jim step off the transporter pad, and saunter through the doors without a backward glance.

“Don’t you say a fucking word, Geoff,” McCoy growls at his colleague, stumbling to his feet and limping in as dignified a way as he can muster to sickbay.

+++

McCoy hasn’t seen Jim privately in over a week. No blow-jobs in his office, no long nights with Jim torturing him by keeping him on the brink of orgasm for hours on end. Nothing. It’s like nothing’s ever happened. Except it has.

So, when McCoy’s summoned at the end of his shift to join Jim in his quarters, his dick immediately stands to attention. He detours to his own room to jerk off quickly and dampen some of his excitement and humiliation.

Eight fucking days – he doesn’t know whether Jim’s proving a point, been busy, or maybe grown bored with him. None of this takes away the image of Jim’s eyes that time in the cell, burning into him, _giving_ McCoy something whether Jim knew it or not. He’s reading too much into things, McCoy decides, and it’ll be business as usual at best, or no more sex at worst.

McCoy stands with his hands behind his back, just inside the doorway, eyes forward, taking in the long length of Jim’s thighs in jeans, the curve of his biceps in his peripheral vision.

“Want a drink, Bones?” Yeah, it’s like a fucking tea-party the way Jim says it.

“Do bears shit in the woods?”

Jim chuckles and indicates the small bar in the corner of his spacious rooms. “Help yourself, _Teddy_.”

“Well, I’ve grown used to Bones like you would a wart on your dick, but yeah,” Bones says, pouring himself a generous measure of the good stuff, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Teddy is marginally less obnoxious.” He raises his glass to his lips, breathes in the fumes, then drains it in one.

Jim laughs, regards him with an impenetrable look. “You miss me, Bones?”

“Yeah, crying into my pillow every night,” McCoy snarks, trying not to smile.

Fuck - he _needs_ to see that look, he realizes, wonders whether now that the wall’s fallen down, it’ll be something he can enjoy more often. But knowing Jim, he’ll have found new ways to deny him what he wants.

Jim splays his legs on the couch and points lazily to the space on the floor between his bare feet. “Well, you won’t mind if I bring tears to your eyes one more time then—“

McCoy’s heart sinks in disappointment. _Fuck, not tonight_ , he thinks, as Jim feeds him his cock, tells him to rest his hands on his inner thighs and keep _fucking_ still as he fucks his face, taking his time. Jim’s musk makes his head spin with need, drags out muffled moans as Jim pulls at his ears and guides the pace and direction. He can barely breathe and his cock aches for attention in his uniform pants.

Jim comes with a loud huff and a, “Jesus, _fuck_ , Bones, your mouth’s just….” Jim’s head is thrown back on the couch, throat tight with the effort of his orgasm, but eyes screwed shut, denying McCoy what he wants.

Minutes later, Jim kicks him out. “I’m fucking tired, Bones. You take care of that with that nice nurse of yours. I’ll give you a free pass for the night, how about that?”

Yep, his captain’s all heart, bless him – ‘course Jim knows McCoy won’t do any such thing. It’d be like the difference between replicated food and the real deal, no -- like a _dry_ fucking crust of bread compared to his Gram’s peach pie. McCoy runs through a list of other lame comparisons on his way to his quarters and collapses on the bed in a rage.

He searches his PADD for official holos of Jim, magnifies his eyes, stares at them, imagines them darkened with arousal, recalls the frown, the way Jim looked at him when he came.

He grips his cock hard, yanks it erratically and ruthlessly, like Jim always does, and he arches off the bed, humps into the mattress, keeping himself on the brink, his ornery nature and the need to come warring in him for an age, till he takes pity on himself and spills over his hand and belly.

It’s a while before he’s got the energy to throw his pillow across the room, closely followed by his PADD.

Bastard’s got him. Knows exactly what he revealed in that look, even if McCoy doesn’t.

He lies awake, pulling together all the fine details that led up to that moment, and wonders idly how he can get himself captured again and put the annoying fuck in the same position again so he gets to see that look again, the need for which has become like air to him. Though, of course, McCoy would never do anything so dumb. But sexual fantasies – no one need ever know, right?

+++

Three months later, it’s a series of happy accidents and one push by McCoy that gets him exactly what he wants again.

There’s been a rare attempt at a coup. Seriously, no one’s dumb enough to try this shit anymore except, apparently, helmsman McKenna who’s currently bleeding out on the bio-bed in front of McCoy.

“Not in my sickbay, Kirk!” McCoy side-steps between Jim and McKenna.

Jim folds his arms, a picture of malevolent innocence. “You treat him, it’s a fucking waste of time, Bones. I’ll have him tortured to death.”

Yeah, he knows that. “So shoot me,” McCoy hears himself say.

It’s a test of his loyalty and a way out of this blind alley when Jim hands him Sulu’s sword. “Do it!” he commands.

It’s been a while since McCoy killed anyone and years since he’s done it when it wasn’t a matter of life and death. But maybe it is now, the way Jim snarls, “Do it, McCoy or I’ll kill the fucking pair of you.” McCoy doesn’t doubt it, but he thinks, if he’s going down, he’s going down as _himself_ , not some cowed asshole.

“I said no, _captain_.”

Jim backhands him with a roar, and even before McCoy’s hit the deck, Jim’s lifted the McKenna by the front of his shirt and driven his sword into his heart. Then, without missing a beat, he kicks the body off the biobed, the machines bleeping in alarm and says calmly, “Now get on the bed, McCoy, insubordination will not go unpunished, you know that.”

“Agreed, captain,” Spock pitches in. “A prolonged session in the booth would be timely, or perhaps the removal of one of the doctor’s digits.”

Jim considers his second in command’s suggestions, discards them with a blink and points to the bed. “I have a better way. Time honored tradition of conflict, and you know how I like my history, Bones.” A beat while he regards McCoy.

“You’re kidding me?” McCoy splutters, wiping the blood from his split lip.

Jim grins but it’s more like a lion’s yawn than any expression that knows humor. “Get. Up.”

Spock arches an eyebrow at him; the bastard’s fascinated by McCoy’s illogical reaction. Spock’s right, to live is always better than to die. And McCoy knows he’ll die if he doesn’t do as Jim says. Jim won’t rape him – the pleasure, the _point_ comes in his compliance. Spock’s already got his phaser drawn to make things clear. Jim’ll walk away, his second in command will finish him off. If it wasn’t for Jo, it would be a welcome out of his shitty life.

Four pairs of eyes bore into him as he thinks, _Peachy_. It’ll be a comfort when he breathes his last breath that at least he provided welcome amusement to every shark in the pack. Only sharks don’t live in packs, he thinks, as two red-shirts step round McKenna and lift McCoy onto the biobed. He doesn’t need to be told to undress and, red faced, he kicks off his pants and boots, and after a nod from Jim, his shirts too.

As Jim stalks towards him, McCoy’s dick reminds him; Jim won’t be able to hide his face in front of his men, and when Jim guides McCoy’s legs round his waist, pushes him down on his back, McCoy stays up on his elbows so he can enjoy his front ring seat.

Jim takes his time, hitting McCoy’s prostrate expertly with each long, leisurely stroke, watching his face hungrily, “Come on, _Bones_ , look at me, look at your fucking captain!”

The realization that Jim gets off looking at McCoy’s face trumps the humiliation. This is the one place Jim thinks he can hide his own hunger; it needs an audience for Jim to be able to do this. He just can’t face Bones knowing it. This is a safe place, where he believes McCoy won’t figure it out.

McCoy comes harder than he ever has in his life, legs clinging, hands twisting on Jim’s shoulders, the look in Jim’s eyes as he rams hard into him, a mix of peace and rage and, Jesus, _vulnerability_ , that’s for him alone.

Jim pulls out, slaps McCoy on the arm and smiles one of his best psychotic smiles. “That’s the idea, Bones. And an hour in the booth for dessert - effective immediately.”

McCoy’s still smiling until the first pulse courses through him and then time stands still in a searing haze of blinding agony.

+++

McCoy’s a patient man even if his dick’s got no sense at all. And he’s been careful over the past six months, reining in his temper and comments to a level that Jim finds acceptable in him, yet intolerable in any other member of his crew.

Of course, he’s jerked off countless times replaying how Jim _gave in_ to him with his eyes. He can see that expression behind his blindfold, his perfect visual memory stoking the fire of his obsession, bringing a keenness to his sex with Jim that keeps McCoy going until a real opportunity will present itself, who knows when, where Jim can’t hide anymore.

He fantasizes idly about ways to entice Jim’s rage in public, though he doesn’t take any of it seriously. One more time, and he’s convinced Jim will work out what the hell he’s playing at -- and Jim won’t be outdone, won’t lose. If he’s discovered, McCoy has no doubt Jim will toss him aside in a heart beat. Attachment is alien to him, a weakness he’d hold in contempt. If Jim thought McCoy had a piece of him, even something as ethereal as this, McCoy will be replaced. Why wouldn’t he be?

The Enterprise hosts a Federation banquet and McCoy sits sullenly at Jim’s side like a prize beagle, house trained and warned _to shut the fuck up unless you have something civil to say_. He passes the time running through recent research with an Andorian medic who coos and plumps McCoy’s ego so as he’s bursting to snap the idiot’s antennae off.

So when the Vulcan ambassador uses the word ‘logical’ for the twentieth fucking time in half a goddamned hour, combined with the itchiness of his dress uniform, McCoy’s irritation peaks and, if he doesn’t let it out soon McCoy fears he’ll suffer an aneurism. Something in him snaps, and it has nothing to do whatsoever with Scotty’s hooch Jim’s had served up as a special treat for the visiting dignitaries.

McCoy pipes up, once, his voice as sarcastic as he dares, and the Vulcan ambassador arches an eyebrow at Jim. Without hesitation, Jim responds by picking an orange from the fruit bowl, tossing it from hand to hand then indicating McCoy come closer with a crooked finger.

“Open your mouth, Bones.”

McCoy doesn’t get it, not until Chekov removes his sash, shoves the orange into McCoy’s mouth as a make-shift ball gag and ties it in place. Fuck.

“Return to your quarters, doctor,” Jim says turning away, “I’ll deal with you later.” And if that’s a glimmer of amusement in the Vulcan’s eyes as McCoy leaves the banquet hall, it’s a fucking small victory for him.

Fuck the bastard, this is a step too far and McCoy wonders if can literally regen his asshole shut to spite Jim. He removes the gag as the doors swish behind him, consequences be damned. His half-baked plan didn’t work and he’s royally fucked.

+++

McCoy’s fallen asleep on the couch. It’s the best he can do, the most on alert he could manage, and it’s the small hours when his door opens.

He rubs his eyes, sees Jim leaning on the door frame. He looks very slightly drunk, broken his own unspoken rule but the Romulan ale’s probably come out and McCoy knows it doesn’t take much to affect even someone with Jim’s preternatural constitution. He makes no comment, just sits up, straightens his back. Waits.

“You’ve taken off the gag,” Jim says softly, stepping towards McCoy.

“I ate it, and it was an _orange_ , Jim.” McCoy indicates vaguely towards the trash.

“And there I was, thinking you’d know me better by now,” Jim says, pulling at his sash then closing the distance between them. “Lie down.” His eyes are burning with desire and McCoy can smell his arousal. He wonders what Jim’s going to do with him this time, how Jim will pay him back for having run his mouth. Jim straddles him, and instantly goes to loop the make-shift blindfold over his eyes. McCoy grabs his wrist.

Jim’s stony faced when he tosses the fabric away, removes his shirt, creamy skin illuminated by the light of McCoy’s PADD glowing on the couch beside them. He’s so incredibly young, so fucking dangerous that McCoy still can’t get his head around how the hell Jim got where he is so quickly, the defeat of Nero notwithstanding.

“You want me to fuck you in public, that it?” Jim indicates that he wants McCoy to undress, and he does so without question, gazing up at Jim who’s regarding him with steely eyes. He’s vibrating with energy, the alcohol he’s consumed having done little to cow him.

“No,” McCoy says simply, waiting for Jim’s next move. He can’t look away from Jim’s eyes, his heart fluttering with hope that maybe, just maybe…

“You want me to show everyone you’re mine.” Jim undoes his pants, guides McCoy’s hand to his erection and McCoy rolls his thumb over the tip, sighing in satisfaction, enjoying the effect this simple movement has on Jim, the way he bucks into his fingers, drops his hands on McCoy’s shoulders and rises up and down, letting him lead.

“They know that already, Jim.” McCoy flushes at the admission, looks away, suddenly wanting to hide, feeling more exposed than on that biobed, more humiliated than when he was gagged in front of fifty guests in the banquet room.

Jim tilts McCoy’s chin up with one finger so he’s forced to meet Jim’s eyes again.

“What then, Bones? What the fuck are you after? You’re playing me.” McCoy can’t answer, just increases the speed as he lowers Jim’s pants with his free hand, smoothes his fingers across scarred, warm skin. Jim humps into McCoy’s fist, but he doesn’t stop talking. “I should be worried but seriously, man, I’m just amused. It’s a good thing you got me watching your back, you suck at schemes. “ McCoy purses his lips and Jim laughs. “That it? That’s all you’re going to say on the matter?”

McCoy clears his throat. “You weigh more than a sack of shit, Jim.”

Jim smiles, and stands, kneels on the couch, one foot on the floor so he’s steady, and he encourages McCoy to do the same, so they’re facing each other. Jim waits for McCoy to take out his cock too then wraps two hands around both their lengths, leaning forward so McCoy can support his weight. Jim’s lips are hovering close to his and for one insane moment, McCoy wonders what that mouth would taste like, when Jim’s going to start on his slow torture of him for the night, why he’s being so, well, not himself.

“I should put you in the booth for what you said tonight. I probably will,” Jim says, closing his eyes, tilting his head back.

“I know,” McCoy whispers. Watching the length of Jim’s neck, the red flush that always appears when he’s getting close. His breath’s shorter now, and he snaps his eyes open, lets go of their cocks and points to the bed.

“Get yourself lubed up and come and sit on my cock.”

McCoy swallows, nods and fetches lube from a drawer, taking his time to smooth it between his cheeks, prepping himself with his back to Jim so he can drink his fill.

“ _Fuck_ , Bones,” Jim moans. “Bend over and open yourself up for me.”

McCoy looks over his shoulder and gasps at the sight of his captain, the Empire’s golden warrior, the man they’ve sculpted and even worshiped in some remote corners of the galaxy, lying on his bed, fisting himself, toes curling on the sheets, eyes raking over _his_ body.

When he’s ready, McCoy straddles Jim’s hips, braces on one arm and waits for Jim to guide his ass down. Jim holds his hips and watches McCoy’s face, when he pushes up into him in one brutal movement. McCoy cries out, and this only encourages Jim to fuck up into him harder.

“Like that, Bones, yeah, show me how you like it.” At this point, Jim’s voice is usually mocking, teasing, commanding; he’s always in control of the pace and direction. But now, he stops moving his hips and seems to want McCoy to do his own thing.

An amused smile plays across his lips as he lies there, idly touching McCoy’s cock, stroking his balls, just watching McCoy ease himself up and down, grinding down when Jim’s fully seated and arching his back until Jim’s cock almost falls out then driving down again.

McCoy doesn’t take his eyes off Jim’s face, off his eyes, waiting, waiting for Jim to turn him over any moment, break the contact like he always does. So he enjoys it while he can.

Jim’s covered in sweat, making obscene noises, saying filthy things that burn through him. His belly’s on fire and damn, he’s so fucking close so he drops forward, changing the angle so Jim can hit his prostate. At one point, he realizes he’s closed his eyes when he hears Jim say: “Who do you belong to, Bones, _fuck_ , tell me…”

“Fuck… _off_!” McCoy manages and, damn, he’s so close.

“Come on, Bones, look at me.” Jim pulls hard on McCoy’s cock, suddenly deciding it’d be a good idea to start doing some work for a change. “Yeah, come on, let me see it, lemme see you give it up, you annoying… son of a bitch!”

McCoy can feel Jim’s breath hitch, can feel the heat of it on his face, and for once he does what he’s told and cracks open his eyes, shaking his head, blowing at his bangs so he can see. McCoy just knows any second, Jim will close his eyes, or do something to take this away from him. But what he sees instead is naked want, _need_ , as his nerve endings begin to scream, as Jim _finally_ , the lazy fuck, takes over and begins to thrust up into him.

They lock eyes and Jim frowns, hisses, “Jesus, Bones…” his eyes black, open, and then he increases the pace, matching each thrust with a twist on McCoy’s cock. “Give it to me, come _on_.”

And McCoy was right -- Jim wants this, whatever he hopes to see in McCoy’s eyes, as much as McCoy’s been hankering after it himself. It’s in the way he’s biting his lips, staring so intently at him, in the way those blue rimmed blown pupils are drawing McCoy to him. The realization inflames McCoy, has him bucking a long, defeated release into Jim’s hand, over his chest, Jim’s voice insisting, “ _Yeah_ , that’s it, that’s what I want… _fuck_.” So that McCoy loses all sense of where he is as he falls forward, noses touching, breath mingling.

Jim catches McCoy’s jaw, forcing his head further away so he’ll get a clear view of his own moment, a seat in the royal box as Jim’s eyes widen, teeth clench and for a few fleeting seconds McCoy sees something no man or woman has ever seen, hears Jim gasp, “Mine!” as he tries to climb as far into McCoy’s body as he can. It’s so fucking humbling, it’s all McCoy can do to bite his tongue and not tell him so.

+++

Twenty minutes later, Jim wakes and McCoy fights the urge to grin and rolls away so Jim can’t see his face.

“I’m going back to my quarters for a shower,” Jim says and he pulls on his pants, leaves the rest of his uniform on the floor. He turns when he reaches the door.

“Bones, watch your mouth, okay. Staff meeting tomorrow, the ambassador’s joining us. There’s a lot of credits running on this deal and I don’t want you running your mouth.”

McCoy yawns, stretches his legs down the bed and flexes his toes, an uncharacteristic warm feeling in his chest.

“Dammit, Jim. If you want a yes man, I’ll just stay in my office and play with poisons.”

Jim sighs, strides back to the bed and leans down so his gorgeous fucking lips almost touch McCoy’s sending a tremble through him.

“Leonard McCoy, I swear…” but Jim never finishes the thought and he’s gone before McCoy can think of a suitable retort.

Those lips, Jesus. And McCoy can’t help wondering how he can get Jim to cross _that_ final line and actually kiss him and break that last taboo between them.

~END~

 

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**Author's Note:**

> +The title comes from Being and Nothingness by Jean Paul Satre where he explains how ‘The Look’ is the basis for sexual desire.  
> +The alien planet is _Nuujicho_ , Swahili for – ‘naked eye’.  
> +Jim borrows the line, “I swear…” from ‘Brokeback Mountain’ because, let’s face it, he’ll never be able to tell McCoy how he feels. But _we_ know ;D


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